Death Frozen Over
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Missing scene for 6x01, Exile on Main Street. Sam returns from Hell, and struggles to free himself from his memories of Lucifer. Rated T to be safe. Reviews craved!


_Pre-tag to 6x01, Exile on Main Street. Based on what little Sam and Bobby told Dean. _

_I own nothing, reviews craved. Thanks to geminigrl11 for the fast beta! _

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**Death Frozen Over**

Water was hitting him in the face.

His hands wouldn't stop balling into fists, his teeth were chattering, his muscles cramping, his bones ached with cold, and the damned water kept hitting him in the face.

Which wasn't that bad, he thought after a while, because at least it was warm.

Sam tried to swallow around the dry, thick lump in his throat and forced his eyes open. Blackness filled his vision at first, until a flash of lightning arced across the sky, eerily illuminating a roiling, tornado-like whirlpool of clouds above, so he could finally see the rain drops that pelted him.

His hearing came back next, when a clap of thunder vibrated his bones and everything around him. It was so close he almost jumped out of his skin.

_Lucifer peeled away the skin of Sam's chest, slowly so that he would feel every second of it_….

Sam blinked, and the memory was gone as fast as it had come. It took a Herculean effort to turn his head and look at the ground. Another bolt of lightning lit his surroundings, timed perfectly for him to see…almost helpfully.

He was lying on his back, on hard packed dirt that the rain was quickly turning to mud, his arms outstretched.

_The rack extended even into Lucifer's cage. Sam's arms and legs were pulled so tight by the chains he was certain his joints would separate. More hooks appeared, biting into and stretching his inhumanly elastic flesh_….

The memory was gone as fast as the first, but Sam quickly folded his arms around his chest, not wanting to take the chance that the hooks would return. It helped his shivering minutely; he was _so cold_.

_Get up_.

Sam didn't stop to worry about why the voice in his head sounded so unfamiliar. It was probably his…after all he hadn't used his voice for speech since—

He twisted around to his left, searching. "Adam?"

Speaking of unfamiliar. The name came out slowly, like he was drunk, the voice was scratchy and raw, much like the throat that uttered it.

His younger brother had been hanging there beside him the whole time, but wasn't now. _Where…?_

It took more time than normal to push himself successfully to his feet, and when he finally managed to stand without falling, his eyes were greeted by another bizarre sight. He was in a cemetery—Stull, he remembered seeing the sign—but it looked different. Headstones were lying flat on scorched grass, arranged in concentric circles, as if they'd been hit by some kind of shockwave. Sam was standing in a perfectly round crater, about six inches deep, just wide enough to fit his 6'4" frame lying down. When lightning flashed again, he could see that the nearest trees were burnt and lying flat. The whole place looked like it had taken a meteor impact.

Putting one foot in front of the other was phenomenally difficult, for some reason, but Sam felt compelled to walk. He couldn't stay there. He didn't _want_ to stay there.

_Looks like you won the fiddle, Sam…but you'll find I'm a sore loser_….

Another thunder clap pounded through the air, interrupting the ear-splitting, brain melting sound of Lucifer's true voice in Sam's mind. He choked out a sob, sagging against a metal post at the cemetery gate. His limbs were like rubber, he was freezing cold, and it felt like Lucifer's cage was right behind him, waiting for him to wake up from this bizarre dream he was having.

Was this another game? Was Lucifer just toying with him?

Blinding white light glared in his eyes, blotting out the dark cemetery and the road nearby. Sam's meager hopes flagged. It _was_ Lucifer. Either the angel was back, or he'd never left and Sam's delusional mind was playing tricks on him, making him think it was over. Sam let himself fall, and waited for the pain to start again. He felt Lucifer's hands pulling at his clothes, dragging him upright.

"Hey, kid, are you all right?"

It wasn't Lucifer's voice, he knew that much—Sam's brain would have been liquefied already. But, that didn't make sense. Sam opened his eyes, looking up at the source. The light was still there—two lights, actually—casting deep shadows over an old man's dark skinned face.

"You with me? Can you stand?"

Sam just stared uncomprehendingly into the man's gentle, worried expression, struggling to swallow so he could talk. The words came out in a jumbled rush. "Are—_isthisreal_?"

"You tell me, kid. You look like you've been through hell."

He frowned at that. The old man didn't seem to mean anything by it, though, so Sam just shrugged. He wasn't sure how to respond, anyway. The man slid his hands under Sam's arms and tugged, lifting him to his feet with remarkable ease.

"I'm the groundskeeper…what happened out here? Do you know?"

_Groundskeeper?_ Sam glanced back in the direction he'd stumbled. The old boneyard looked far too old and run down to have a staff. There wasn't even an office in sight.

"My gosh, son, you're as cold as the devil, let me get you covered up."

Sam looked back at the man, but couldn't resist as he was guided toward an old, rusty, flatbed pickup truck. The man eased Sam into the passenger seat, and produced a blanket from…somewhere. Sam was fading in and out, images of Lucifer and Hell blurring into sights of rain and the truck's interior. He vaguely registered the blanket being tucked around him, and then, abruptly, the old man was in the driver's seat, cranking the heat up. The warm air blasted against Sam's face, and, even though the cold still gripped his insides, his teeth finally settled, and he released a shaking breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"There," the man said softly. "You just rest. There's a truck stop a few miles up the road. Maybe they'll have something hot you can eat."

The words were hard to understand, but for some reason, they were calming Sam's nerves. His fingers and toes were warming up, but his body still felt like jelly, and he wanted to melt into the cracked leather bench seat. Dragging his eyes up, he looked at the man, who was driving placidly—like he picked up drenched, disoriented, hypothermic strangers all the time—and tried to form a question, or a simple thought. It took a long time to do either.

"Did—did you s-see anyone else?" Sam rasped out, his throat raw.

_He screamed until his voice gave out, but the pain didn't stop, it only got worse as his insides slowly shredded_….

"No one. Should I have?" The man spared him a glance and a smile, but otherwise kept his eyes on the road.

"A-Adam…he must s-still be d-down there," Sam murmured, mostly to himself. He wondered idly if he had spoken out loud at all, since the man didn't react. Why would he be out but not his brother? Adam hadn't done anything except be in the wrong place at the wrong time; that was hardly deserving of damnation. Nothing made any sense.

Sam didn't say anything else, just let the man drive. It was hard to think, to move, to do anything put soak in the glorious heat that was flowing from the truck's vents. After a while, his body began to relax, and he felt some strength returning. The tremors stopped, but he still felt the ice deep down.

Time seemed to slow down. The sound of the road and the rumble of the truck's engine lulled him toward sleep. Sam was halfway out when he felt hands guiding him out of the truck. He blinked, looking around in confusion. They were at a truck stop, like the old man had said they were heading for. Sam wasn't sure why that surprised him, what he'd expected.

The old man helped Sam to his feet again, then guided him over to a bench in a small outdoor rest area. Tucking the blanket back around Sam, the man stood, looking him over, smiling kindly.

"Now, let's see if the snack bar's still open."

He was gone, and then back quickly. Sam frowned at that. Either time was moving faster than he thought, or the man was. All he could do was shake his head as a paper cup full of steaming soup and a plastic spoon was placed in his hand. The warmth of the cup seemed to spread up his hand, into his arm. It was a glorious feeling.

"Eat up, but take it slow, son. You don't want to get sick."

Sam eyed him, nagging suspicion nipping at the edges of his—admittedly frayed—consciousness. "Why?"

The old man's eyebrows rose up. "Why what?"

"Why…are you h-helping me?" Sad as it was, Sam wasn't used to it. The only people that helped him anymore were his brother, and Bobby, and Cas…and for all he knew, they were all dead. He knew for sure that Bobby and Cas were. He'd seen it.

The thought of Dean made his insides clench. When he'd last seen his brother, he'd been a bloody mess, sprawled helplessly against the Impala. Lucifer had nearly beaten him to death—would have, if Sam hadn't somehow found the strength to stop him. Had Dean survived?

A curious expression passed over the old man's face, before he gave Sam a conspiratorial smile. "Got a secret for you, kid. Random acts of kindness. Forget money, that's what _really_ makes this world go 'round."

Sam just blinked, not really processing much but sensing that the man was only trying to help him. He was grateful for that. "Th—thank you."

He turned his attention back to the chicken soup, which actually tasted pretty good, though Sam was beginning to question where the man had found it in a truck stop in the middle of the night. His thoughts were interrupted when a strong hand patted his back through the blanket.

"You just hang in there, Sam. You'll figure all this out soon enough."

Sam stilled. It was all fuzzy, but he was sure he hadn't told the man his name. Slowly raising his head, Sam turned to question him—

The man was gone. The truck too. Sam twisted around, searching the parking lot. Aside from two tractor trailer trucks and a small van, the lot was empty.

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Sam stayed on the bench, finishing the soup. His stomach rebelled a little, even at that, but the heat the liquid provided was far more important than a few cramps. He felt a little better, but he could still feel Lucifer's cold grip, coiled around his brain, his lungs, his heart. Setting the cup aside, he pulled the blanket tighter, and tried to piece together what was going on. How had he escaped? One minute, Lucifer's minions were tearing him apart, the next, he'd woken up in the cemetery where he'd fallen.

Two men, truck drivers, were walking by, apparently going their separate ways.

"—Chicago, then Indianapolis, how about you?"

"Eh, the Sioux Falls-Fargo run again."

"Well, take care, Henry!" The first man moved off, the second stayed lighting a cigarette.

Sam clumsily checked his pockets…and found his money clip. That was odd. He could have sworn he left his cash with the rest of his belongings in the Impala's glove compartment the night they drove to Detroit. Where he'd been going, he wouldn't need a phone or his keys. Regardless, his fingers wrapped around the money, and Sam struggled to stand up.

"E-excuse me, sir…d-did you s-say Sioux Falls?" his voice came out barely a croak, and the man turned and stared at him like he'd spoken another language.

"Sorry…what?"

Clearing his throat, Sam tried again. "D-did you say Sioux Falls?"

The trucker's stare was slightly guarded, but he didn't deny it. Sam plunged ahead before his legs gave out again. "I-I don't have much money…b-but if you could give me a lift…it's yours."

He held out the cash—he wasn't even sure how much was there, but maybe it was enough to buy him a lift. The driver stared at it for a moment, then his expression shifted and he shrugged. "Um, sure. You tryin' to get home or somethin'?"

_Home?_ Sam blinked. Home was where he and Dean had carved their initials all those years ago, a green army man stuffed into an ashtray, Legos trapped in a heat duct…no, Sioux Falls wasn't home. So far as he knew, it wasn't anyone's home now, but, maybe it was a place to start looking. The stranger in front of him wouldn't understand that, so Sam hedged and nodded once.

"S-something."

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A seven hour ride in a semi wasn't exactly what Sam needed, but it was getting him somewhere. The cab was cool, too cool for his liking, but he didn't want to complain, so he just wrapped the blanket as snugly around himself as he could.

The driver talked to him every now and then—Sam wasn't sure if he answered or not. Every so often another truck would go past in the other direction, and the glare of the high beams sent Sam's mind tumbling back down to where he'd been. Lucifer's anger burning through him, Michael's rage at being trapped. His and Adam's screams twisting into a single, agonized melody.

After an eternity fighting the cold, the truck slowed to a stop at a lot outside Sioux Falls. The dawn sky silhouetted the darkened house. The sight broke Sam from his tortured reverie.

"You sure you can make it, kid? I mean…you look _awful_."

Sam looked at the driver, and couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled out. It was followed by another, and he clamped down on his emotions before it became hysterical. He'd seen himself turned inside out…if he looked anywhere near as bad as that now, the trucker wouldn't have picked him up in the first place.

"Thanks," he muttered, fumbling with the door handle, then slowly climbing down from the truck. He didn't look back as he moved toward the porch. Walking was still hard, but Sam managed to keep from face-planting, so that was progress.

Something soft but pointed nudged his shin, causing him to flinch, and nearly sending him to the ground. He looked down, finding a Rottweiler gazing up at him, whining softly. The dog nudged him again when he didn't react.

"H-hey Cheney," Sam bent to run his hand down the dog's neck. He didn't dare drop to one knee, or he'd likely never get up again. The long, chilly ride up from Kansas had sapped what little energy Sam had built up. He just wanted to sleep. _Forever_.

Unlatching Cheney's chain, Sam resumed his trek to the porch, his new escort at his side. _Poor girl_. There was no telling how long she'd been out here with no one to feed her. Sam wondered if she knew Bobby was dead. Sometimes dogs could sense things like that.

The few steps leading up to the front door were like Everest to Sam's rubbery legs, but he made it up. He felt like he was a hundred years old.

Maybe he was. He hadn't seen a mirror. Some small part of his brain reminded him of the dog. She wouldn't have lived that long, even if Sam had.

He planned on leaving the _how_ he was even alive thing alone for the time being. The questions swirling around in his skull were making him dizzy. He only had his now empty money clip, but he remembered that Bobby left a spare key, hidden behind a small cutout in the paneling by the door. Only three people knew where to look.

Sam retrieved the key, and opened the door slowly. The place was dark, but didn't look all that different. Of course, it hadn't really changed much at all in the years since he and Dean had come seeking help—when their dad was captured by Meg—so it wasn't all that surprising that it was the same as he remembered.

Who was going to change it?

The couch was close by, and Sam staggered in that direction. He reached back for the door, but wasn't sure if he closed it or not. It didn't much matter. Sam collapsed onto the couch, patting Cheney's head appreciatively. His companion had helped the best she could, after all.

"I know you're probably hungry," Sam murmured softly, strength fleeing him. "But, I gotta sleep right now…."

He wanted to try and call Dean's phone, see if his brother had made it out of the showdown in one piece, but Sam was at the end of his rope. His last perception was his face hitting the folded up afghan at the other end of the couch.

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_His screams intertwined with Lucifer's voice, and Sam could feel the blood and gray matter flowing from his ears. It all melded with the constant shrieks of the damned that echoed all around them, and Michael's righteous fury as he resumed his battle with Lucifer—leaving Sam and Adam to the others_….

The unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked broke through the cacophony in Sam's head, and he jolted awake. "W'uh—?"

"You're in the wrong house, wearing the wrong face, _friend_. I don't take kindly to something mocking one of my boys."

The voice was cold and clearly furious. It was also an impossibility. It was Bobby Singer's angry tone that greeted Sam. He opened his eyes, raising his head just barely off the soft, warm afghan, to find someone—some_thing_?—that looked just like his friend, holding a shotgun aimed at Sam's head.

"Bobby?" Sam's eyes flicked up and down, taking in the image. Bobby was standing a few feet away, in a sweatshirt and pajama bottoms, looking like he'd just stumbled out of bed. The shotgun was the only thing normal about it.

"Sit up. _Slow_."

Sam held one hand up outside the blanket, placating, and pushing himself up to a sitting position. "Is—is that really necessary?"

Bobby's hard gaze wavered, then an expression somewhere between incredulous and frightened passed over his grim features. "Come to think of it…it might be pointless. If the Colt couldn't kill you, this peashooter won't."

The tone suggested that Bobby was talking more to himself than anyone else. Sam stopped and frowned. _The Colt?_ _Oh. Right_.

"I'm not Lucifer."

A doubtful frown replaced the worry, but there was no reply. Sam nodded toward the couch, which he already missed. "Angels don't sleep…Fallen or otherwise."

The briefest glimpse of Castiel, passed out in the Impala's back seat as they sped toward Detroit, flittered through Sam' mind, but he was more concerned with the man apparently standing before him.

"Huh. Touché." Bobby responded, slight bemusement being quickly replaced by mistrust. "But, that's only one possibility crossed off the list."

Sam considered that for a moment, then slowly extended his arm from its warm shelter and pulled the sleeve of his shirt back. "Go for it."

Bobby, or whatever he was, watched him warily for a moment, then cautiously gathered some items from around the room. A silver knife, some holy water—which Sam guzzled, since he was thirsty—some salt, a muttered "Christo." By the end, Sam's arm was hurting, his throat just barely wetted to his satisfaction, and his taste buds were rebelling against the salt.

The older man slowly lowered the shotgun, and knelt in front of the couch. "_Sam?_"

He shrugged tiredly, eyes drifting shut. "I guess so."

There were so many questions, and more kept coming. Sam couldn't handle it all. For a moment, nothing happened, but then Sam felt himself being grabbed and squeezed into a tight hug, his chin coming to rest on Bobby's shoulder.

"_We thought we'd lost you, boy!_"

Sam nodded minutely. "Yes, sir."

"How'd you get here?"

"I, uh," Sam hesitated. The night was a blur; he remembered waking up, somehow finding his way to a truck stop, and a long, chilly ride north, but little else. "I don't…really remember."

Bobby held him tightly for several long minutes, before pulling back and running his hand through Sam's hair. "Well, you look like Death warmed over."

"I'll take the death part if I can have the _warm_," Sam huffed, smiling faintly. Bobby didn't laugh. Maybe it wasn't as funny as Sam thought.

Bobby rearranged Sam's blanket. "Why didn't you say somethin'?" he griped lightly. "Let's get you to the fireplace."

"Is—?" Sam stopped, unsure how to ask, or even what to ask. "Is _Dean_ here?"

He tried to ignore how the name came out like a prayer. If Bobby noticed, he didn't show it. "He's okay. Best as can be expected. He left a few days after…well, _after_, and that's the last I heard from him."

Sam tried to process that.

_You go find Lisa. You pray to god she's dumb enough to take you in, and you - you have barbecues and go to football games. You go live some normal, apple-pie life, Dean. Promise me!_

Maybe Dean had kept his promise after all. Sam hoped so. But… How had Sam gotten out? If Dean had been behind it, wouldn't he have been at the cemetery? More questions.

As the older hunter helped Sam up and guided him toward the study, Sam eyed him warily. "Bobby…d-don't take this the wrong way, but…what are _you_ doing here?"

At the questioning look, Sam elaborated. "I saw…_him_ snap your neck."

"Oh," Bobby's face shifted with enlightenment. "Well, that's where everything gets a little crazy…."

Sam looked up at him incredulously, as Bobby lowered him into the chair by the desk and moved to start a fire. He chuckled at that as only the guy who'd been Lucifer's prom dress could. "Oh, _that's_ where it gets crazy? _Great_."

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_Castiel, if you can hear this, please…I need your help. I need answers_….

A soft cough interrupted Sam's prayer. He opened his eyes and turned away from the bedroom window. Bobby was standing at the door.

"Sorry," Bobby said.

"S'okay."

"Cas still not answering?"

Sam smiled sadly, hitching one shoulder. "I'm used to my prayers not being answered."

Bobby frowned at that, stepping slowly into the room. "Sam…I'm sure he'd come if he could. Dean told me Cas was going to take over for Michael. I'm sure he's got his hands full."

"Yeah." Sam rubbed his hands over his face. He was feeling better, and the cold had receded for the most part. He doubted it would ever be gone completely.

Seemed like most everyone had made out of the End of the World okay. Bobby was resurrected, Castiel was the new sheriff in town, Dean was with the girl of his dreams…and Sam was—

Sam felt a little like an exile, returning to a home he no longer recognized. He wasn't sure what to do. He'd dialed Dean's number a dozen times, but kept chickening out. What could he say? _Hi, Dean, guess who?_

Nothing felt right. He should be going to Dean, not sitting in Bobby's house, wondering what was happening. Reuniting should be a no-brainer, but it wasn't. He'd forced Dean to promise to get out of the life. So far as he could tell, Dean had done that. For Sam.

But, Sam needed to find out what had rescued—or released—him from Hell. He needed to see if Adam had been freed, too, needed to try and find him. That required a hunt, one that could take a long time. If he went to Dean, his brother would no doubt drop everything and go off with him.

How could Sam do that? After Dean had kept his promise? Sam knew what that promise had cost. Would he now ask Dean to abandon it?

"Sam," Bobby cut into his thoughts. "I know you're…_reluctant_ to go see your brother, but…he can help you. In more ways than one."

Sam looked up at him, frowning. Bobby shook his head.

"These walls are pretty thin. If anyone can help you with those nightmares…it's Dean."

He considered that, then just nodded silently. Bobby made a helpless gesture, then shoved his hands in his pockets. "I, uh, talked to a dealer across town. Actually, he's one of the ones you saved during that zombie thing while back, so he owes you. He'll get you set up with a ride, said you can pick out anything you like."

Sam raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Act of random kindness."

"What?"

Glancing back, Sam shrugged, smiling uncertainly. "I— I don't know. That just popped in there."

"Oh. Okay. Well, you feel up to a ride over to the car lot?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

` Bobby watched him, a frown tugging at his mouth. "You need him, Sam. And he needs you. You should go talk to him."

Sam knew enough to know Bobby wasn't talking about the car dealer.

"Yeah. I know. Maybe I will."

At the very least, he could head out to Cicero and _see_ his brother. He could decide then what to do next.

END


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